


our gentle little world

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmastime, Dogs, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Grief/Mourning, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Mutual Pining, Ned and Sansa Moments™, Past Heartbreak, Sexual Content, Sisterhood, Tea, Woodsmoke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “Can you… can you just hold me for a minute?”Bites back the word —please— bobbing like a paper boat on the tide of her tongue. Swallows it down as she looks up at him silently. Wordlessly asking. She won’t beg. Won’t sayplease— even though she’s slowly crumbling. Sand slipping through fingertips; just needs him to sink his hands and pile it all back together. Won’t cry.Won’t cry. Repeats it again and again — even as the first tear slips down her cheek.“Please, Jon.”Sansa returns to Winterfell after the death of her mother and tries to negotiate a new normality.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 71
Kudos: 153





	1. return

**Author's Note:**

> > The real question is how long can my grammar-control-freak-inner-self negotiate the normality of a lowercase title??

It’s hard coming home.

(it _should_ be)

Robb meets her at the airport. Hair like hers: shades of autumn, amber, fire. Lopsided smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Gives one back to match; unshed tears making the gaze they share glitter like sapphires. Takes her in his arms. Bear hug. Wraps her up, fingers splayed between her shoulder-blades. Smell of him. Winter air. Woodsmoke. _Warmth_. Buries her face in his chest; but she doesn’t cry.

Quiet lanes once they’re off the motorway. Ink-dark sky pressing into the hills on the horizon. Wisps of cloud cloaking the sliver of a moon. Silent as the hedges they pass most of the way home. No words. No more lopsided smiles. No tears. Window cracked half-an-inch; cigarette smoke casting ribbons into the night.

Dad is waiting at the front door. Face hard-carved as the ironwood frame; breaks in two when he sees her. Steps onto the gravel at the bottom of the steps. Tuts into her hair that she smells like _bad habits still not broken_. Lips to her forehead; shape of a smile as she denies it on a breath that carries the scent of a lie: tobacco and chewing-gum, spritz of perfume at her collar. Doesn’t say anymore. Just holds her closer.

Kaleidoscope of fur once she steps into the house. Grey. Black. _White_. Knows he’s here as soon as she sees that slip of pearly coat, that flash of ruby eyes. Kneels down. Ghost breathes close to her cheek; backs off as Grey Wind nuzzles at her neck. Fingers in their fur. Head bowed toward them. The other dogs flooding round her. Safe in a circle of wolves. Looks up at the creak of a footstep. Eyes on hers: dark as the sky without. Heart skittering against her breastbone. Tiniest of smiles quirking both their lips.

*

It’s good to be home.

(it _shouldn’t_ be)

Arya isn’t here yet. Rickon is in bed. Bran is out till the morning. But the dogs are here. Dad is here. Robb is here. Jon — _Jon_ is here, too.

Sitting in the living room. Garlands on the bannisters; wrapped round the lamp in the corner. Tree scraping at the ceiling. Haphazard tinsel and fairy-lights flashing red and gold and green. Dad’s saying something about Rickon helping him with it last week. Apologising for the messiness, knows it’s not as neat as it _normally_ is.

Intake of breath at that. Dad. Robb. Jon. Not her. Can’t slice her lungs up. Tears will come if she does. And she’s not ready for them yet. So she gets up from the sofa, slides on her socks over to the tree. Starts sifting the lights more evenly through the branches. Adjusts a bauble. Leaves the star crooked; Rickon placed it like that — and it’s perfect as it is.

“There,” she says softly. “Normal now.”

Turns back to find them all watching her. Dad with tears trembling on his lower-lids. Robb with that lopsided smile that breaks her heart. Jon with the softest little glow limning his ink-dark eyes. Pats his palm to the sofa. She slides back toward it, sits down next to him. Exhale of breath at that. Dad. Robb. Jon. Her — _her_ , too.

*

It isn’t hard slipping out her bedroom.

(it _should_ be)

Clicking the door shut quietly behind her. Dark hallway. Dogs downstairs shut up in the kitchen. Bare feet stepping softly across the floorboards. Nary a sound. Guest bedroom: well-oiled door gliding open with the barest pressure. Almost as dark as the hallway. Little flare of moonlight through the half-drawn curtains. Spilling on the bed. Him sat up against the pillows, sheets pooled round his hips.

“Sansa.”

He’s said her name half a dozen times already tonight. But it sits differently in his mouth now. Heavier. Deeper. Darker. Whisper of woodsmoke creeping out his lips, wrapping round her head, seeping down her throat. Leans back on the door as she pushes it soundlessly shut. Watch each other, expectation almost as heavy as the wariness weighing heavy in both of them.

“You said — ”

“I know what I said, Jon.”

Doesn’t say anymore. Lets her skin do the talking: every little bit of it bared to glow pale as the moonlight at the window. Pyjamas scattered across the carpet. Burst of freckles on her shoulder: scarlet stars in a milk-white sky untouched by summer. Watches as his eyes rove over them, tongue wicking his lower lip as he remembers the taste of each and every one.

*

It’s good to be back here.

(it _shouldn’t_ be)

Not home. Just _here_.

Somewhere she can fade. Somewhere she can _forget_. Gentle little world lit by scarlet stars, moonlight at the window. Eyes on hers: ink-dark as the sky without. Warmth flushing the valleys beneath her skin. Fire-bruise at her throat; lips to soothe the tangled heat of it. Pulse of a moan at her ear. Smoky, dark — breathless as she rocks her hips, takes him deeper. Nails nipping at the plump muscles of his shoulders. Face against his neck. 

Fingers in her hair, slipping strands round their stems. Little pull to make her roll her gaze up to him. Stare at each other, no longer wary. Weary now. Expectation won out; reality unfolding between them as it always does. Hips sliding smoothly against hers even as a line knits between his brows. Draws them up: little puppy-dog look that makes her heart shatter against his chest. Leans close. But she turns from his kiss. Can’t let it land. Not yet. Tears will come if it does. And she’s not ready for them yet.

Lips on her temple instead. Words warm as woodsmoke whispered against her skin. Lets her duck her face back against his neck. Hums beneath his breath to hear the strangled whimper rising in her throat. Clutches at him now. Ocean opening up inside her; saltwater stinging her eyes. Fingers in her hair: anchor-chains holding her steady.

“I _said_ — ”

“I know what you said, Sansa.”

Doesn’t say anymore. Just breathes him in: every little bit of him pressed flush against her body. Humming beneath his breath still — _shh, Sans, shh_ — as the waves crash and roil in her belly, white-caps breaking at the rocky edges of her heart. _There_ , she thinks, prays, silently sings, _normal now_. 

*

It’s hard the next morning: to pretend.

(it _should_ be)

Sits opposite him at the breakfast table. Moonlight gone. Scarlet stars, too. Pale, wintry sunlight showing at the window now. Falls in blinding rays on their gentle little world till all its softness is eclipsed. Dad. Robb. Rickon complaining that the bacon’s burnt. On her feet again, laughing with her little brother as she sets the pan atop the hob to make him some more.

Jon — Jon _everywhere_. Ache between her legs. Eyes on her back. Softest little smile as she turns back to the table. Woodsmoke-words still warm in her ear. _Shh, Sans, shh_. Wishes he could shape that little lullaby again — here, _now_ — wishes it till her heart creaks a sadder beat between the crooks of her ribs. 

But they’re smiling up at her. Dad. Robb. Rickon. Jon — _Jon_ , too. She smiles back. Turns toward the sink before they spot that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Plunges the pan beneath the water. Listens to it spit and hiss. Waves in her belly again. But — _but_ white fur at her ankles. Dark eyes on her back. Reaches a hand down, rasps her fingers between Ghost’s ears. Glances over her shoulder to share the tiniest of smiles with Jon. Takes a deep, shuddering breath as she gathers her shoulders up in front of the sink.

 _There_ , she thinks, prays, silently sings, _normal now_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I finished writing [Yours to Keep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686101/chapters/51722149) tonight (chapter update this week!) and then this little thing just flowed right from my fingertips. A lot sadder than what I usually write. Slower. Bit more bittersweet. But I’m **feeling** it at the moment — even if right now I am not quite sure where it’s going. Another chapter or two. Fluffy moments. Sisterhood. Angst. Sexy softness. Working out the tangles of that great big knot grief knits in every aspect of life and love and loss and light. I don’t know. You might not, either. That’s okay. Feel free to tell me either way if you so desire. ❤️  
>  **N.B.** title and general vibe inspired by another gem by my bois Sticky Fingers: [Liquorlip Loaded Gun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJlMLCjFZ8c). 🥰


	2. reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > I can’t stop. 🌙 

It chimes out like a church-bell.

She pushes away from the sink, is at the front door in a heartbeat. Soapsuds in her hair. Sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Fingers trembling on the handle, steadying out as she pulls the door open smoothly. Breathless. Blot of pale, wintry sky in front of her; gravel crunching beneath the tread of boots. Looks down, sob riding high in her throat.

“ _Arya_.” 

Comes out strangled, betrays the steady grip she’s concentrating hard on keeping as the door-handle creaks between her fingers. But her little sister just smiles. Opens her arms. Steps into them: some sleepwalker in a distant dream. Chin on top of smooth, dark hair. Feels those familiar features against her chest: tapered chin, little button nose. Breathes her in till her lungs hurt.

*

Weren’t always so close, so tactile. Dad used to say they were like the sun and the moon; one always in the shadow of the other. But they’ve grown up now. Realised that they both shine just as bright in different shades of light. Blood and shadows, the shared ghosts and griefs that bond them. But she won’t think about that. Not yet.

Makes a pot of tea. Fingers trembling on the bone-china inlaid with leaping trout: flecks of silver in a whorl of sapphire blue. Remembers Dad coming back with it from a business trip in the south. Suitcase clattering with an entire tea-set he’d found in some quaint little antiques shop deep in the backstreets of the city. _Oh, Ned, I love it_. Remembers the smile he wore as patient fingers marvelled at its design.

“Is that — ”

“Yes,” she says softly. “Think I shouldn’t use it?”

Arya looks at her as she asks it. Doesn’t say anything. Just smiles, shakes her head, motions for her to continue. Sansa nods, picks up the lid, sets it on the teapot. Fingertips trailing its scalding sides till her skin begins to burn. Stares down at the silver-flecked trout shimmering alive as rain in the weak winter sunlight. Warmth at her shoulder. Fingers lifting her wrist gently away from the teapot.

“Here,” says Arya. “I’ll take it.”

*

Ghost half-splayed across her lap. Leans back against the wall by the fireplace, traces patterns in the thick white fur as the dogs doze all around her. Arya carried the tea-tray out; bristled off some joke to keep Dad from tearing up at the sight of it. Worked — just about. He took a cup, smiled down into it as he stirred a spoon round it. Robb didn’t say anything. Jon was the only one quick enough to laugh at her jest.

“Where’s Nym?” he asks now.

“She goes to work with Gendry most days,” says Arya with a shrug. “So she’s staying up with him till he drives down here tomorrow.” Catches the question in Dad’s gaze. “He’s smithing on a farm at the moment. Agency hopes they’ll have something more permanent for him after Christmas.”

Dad nods. “But you’re happy?”

“We’re happy.”

Sansa clears her throat. “Lovely little flat they’ve got, too.” Frowns at the husk embedded in her voice. “Arya’s done it up really nicely.”

“That’s good,” says Dad, so softly they strain to hear him. “Long as you’re all happy… that’s all I want.” Rasps a hand across his close-cropped beard. “Been tough, hasn’t it? This year. I — I just want you all to be happy again. One day.”

Somehow she’s reaching out. Up. Fingers finding his: rough and warm against her ivory skin. Tries a smile; but it feels as broken as he looks. 

“We will be,” she whispers. “One day, Dad.”

*

Takes the dogs over the fields to clear her head. Winter air on her cheeks, biting at the burn in her blood. Likes it being this cold: grass beneath her feet frozen as the frayed edges of her heart.

Sun high in the sky, light-rays splitting the clouds like crystals. Teeth chattering as she adjusts the scarf round her neck, thrusts her gloved hands deeper into her pockets. Kaleidoscope of fur running in and out of the trees. Grey. Black. _White_. Turns to follow the direction that pearly coat is pointing in. Eyes on hers: dark as the boughs lining the lane. Heart skittering against her breastbone. Tiniest of smiles quirking both their lips.

Walks up to her. Long strides, but unhurried. Bloom of colour high in his cheeks from the frost-edged air. Coat-collar turned up against his throat; black jeans white-flecked as Ghost rubs up against his knee. Bends down, rasps a hand over the snowy head. Glances back up at her, brows quirked in that puppy-dog look that hurts her heart and heals it all at once.

“Thought you might like some company.”

Doesn’t wait for her to reply. Lifts himself back up, shoulders braced against the cold as he gives a whistle and pushes on in a flood of black-grey fur whirling round his ankles. She watches him walk a few steps. Follows, gloved fingers rasping together in her pockets as she watches him flex his hands to warm them. Wants them on her body again, moulding their shape into her skin. Bites her lip, frowning.

Catches up to him. Shakes the thoughts out of her head as she bends an ear to listen to whatever he’s saying about work: office politics, some receptionist batting her lashes at him every morning, how he deserved _that_ promotion more than Robb. Flash of humour in the gaze they share now. Finds herself sliding closer to him.

“How is Robb?”

“Happy enough,” he says softly. “Most of the time.” Looks down at the hard-edged grass, frowns as he considers. “Saw him tear up a bit at the teapot, though.” Rolls his shoulders up, clears his throat, changes the subject. “Has he told you about Jeyne?”

Grateful for the way he can always read her. The way he knows _exactly_ what to say and when to say it. Moved on from the silver-flecked teapot; found a bit of safe territory instead. Grateful for it — for _him_. Smiles now. Shakes her head. Bends an ear to listen to his tale about Robb’s new flame. 

*

Reach a rise in the landscape as the sun starts to sink. Colder now, breath billowing up as smoke to the sky. Dogs panting as they continue to play half-heartedly. They pause on the knoll, stand shoulder-to-shoulder as they watch the yaps and whines. Feels the heat of him seeping through her coat, settling like sun-warmed honey across her skin. Turns to find him gazing at her.

“Last night — ”

“Later,” she breathes. “Later, Jon.”

“Sansa — ”

“Can you… can you just hold me for a minute?”

Bites back the word — _please_ — bobbing like a paper boat on the tide of her tongue. Swallows it down as she looks up at him silently. Wordlessly asking. She won’t beg. Won’t say _please_ — even though she’s slowly crumbling. Sand slipping through fingertips; just needs him to sink his hands and pile it all back together. Won’t cry. _Won’t_ _cry_. Repeats it again and again — even as the first tear slips down her cheek. 

“Please, Jon.”

But he’s gathered her up before the first word is out of her mouth. Muffles it against his chest as he wraps his arms round her: hand at the small of her back, the nape of her neck. Fingers creeping to cradle the back of her head, smoothing down the auburn curls escaped from her topknot. Takes half a heartbeat — then she’s clutching at him. Fingertips like arrowheads burrowing into the muscles of his back.

“Shh, Sans, shh.”

Lips on her temple. Words warm as woodsmoke whispered against her skin. Ocean opening up inside her; saltwater stinging her eyes. Holds her steady: arms like anchor-chains, grounding her to the little rise in the land they stand and sway on. Sky grows inky; scatter of stars spilt across it. Neither of them makes a move to let the other go. Minute lasts till midnight.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finding this fic strangely cathartic to frame and write. Couldn’t tell you why. Just letting it flow at the moment. Feels vaguely right. ❤️


	3. reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Merry Christmas (Eve) 🎄

“Sans?”

Half-turns toward his voice as she lifts the latch of the back door. Quirk of her brow, little hum in her throat — _hmm?_ — casual as anything. Almost as if they _are_ just two friends returning from a late-night dog walk. Almost as if they haven’t been locked in each other’s arms since the sun dipped below the hills. Almost as if her heartbeat runs to its own rhythm — not the slow, steady thrum of his pressed against her breastbone. Almost as if every fibre of her being isn’t aching to run back to that rhythm, those arms, his _warmth_.

Dimly aware of his voice dropping to a soft whisper as they tread softly into the boot-room. She nods when she thinks she should nod; but she can’t hear him over the rush of blood in her ears. Nudges off one boot. Hops to dislodge the other, nodding all the while. Dogs clicking across the flagstones. His fingers on her arm.

“You’re not even listening.”

Soft, how he says it. Not a single hint of accusation or irritation. Feels his fingers knead through the layers — jacket, sweater, shirt — of her upper arm. Lets him pull her up straight, cool slate stinging through her socks as her boot finally slumps free of her foot. Blinking furiously now; saltwater stinging her eyes. His are damp, too. No puppy-dog look painted on his face — just a pain etched deep as her own.

Opens her mouth to speak — _later, Jon, later_ — but he shakes his head. Runs his fingers gently up over her shoulder, settles them on her cheek. Lifts her chin as she gazes at him; dares herself to keep from arching into his touch. Manages it, _just_. He sees the war in her eyes, though; smiles sadly as he strokes a thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone. Then he drops his hand, turns on his heel, walks out into the hallway.

*

Finds her way into the kitchen. Stumbles across the perfectly flat slate floor, bumps into the corner of the counter-island. Wants to follow him. Wants to turn on her heel, walk out into the hallway, traipse up the stairs after him, sink into his bed — wants it all so _badly_. Ache in her chest as she runs the tap, holds a glass beneath it. Takes a long drink.

“Hey, sis.”

Water gushing between her teeth. “Jesus Christ!”

“No, it’s just me.”

Turns, laughter vying with the frown on her brow. “You _scared_ me, Bran.”

“Sorry.”

Doesn’t _look_ sorry. Sat in the half-light of a lamp at the kitchen table, one hand lost in a share-bag of crisps, froth of milk on his upper lip. Needs a hair-cut. Jumper could do with a wash and a patch at the left elbow. But he’s smiling at her — and he’s perfect as he is. Heart glowing in her chest as she sits opposite him, takes the crisp he proffers with a smile of her own. Raises a brow at his mud-flecked trainers perched on the chair beside her.

“When did you get in?”

He shrugs. “Eleven, maybe. Or midnight. Yeah, midnight. Probably.”

“Anyone up?”

Wipes a hand down his sweater. “No. Just me and you.” Slides a look at her now; hint of amusement at the very edges of his eyes. “Oh, and Jon, of course.” Smiles as she rolls her eyes to the heavens. “Creeping around together in the dark — it’s like you’re both teenagers again, sis.” Wafts a hand lazily at her as she opens her mouth. “Never told anyone then and I won’t tell anyone _now_ , either.”

“It’s not — ”

“Don’t care what it is. Then. Now. Always. Never. You. Him. Nobody.” Pushes the crisp-packet across the table, smile softening as she reaches out for it. “It’s fine. That’s all it is. _Fine_. Okay?” Picks up his glass, head mirroring hers as she nods. “Good. Do we have any more milk? Think Rickon left this glass out for Santa.”

“Bran!”

“Sorry.”

Doesn’t _look_ sorry. But he’s smiling at her — and that means everything’s perfect.

*

Stays perfect the rest of the morning. Easy, calm, relaxed. Rickon doesn’t even complain too much about Santa’s stolen milk — especially when Dad claps a hand to his forehead and realises they left it out a day early. _Tonight, Rickon, your dad’s a silly old fool_. She smiles indulgently at that; fills his coffee-cup, heart full to bursting with the same steaming warmth as he rumbles out a thank-you wrapped in Northern smoke.

Gendry arrives at midday. Nymeria at his heel; a holdall hefted up on one impossibly-muscled shoulder. Catches Arya up in his free arm, hefts her up just as easily, grinning into her hair as she smiles into his _other_ impossibly-muscled shoulder. Sets her down to shake Dad’s hand, clap Jon’s arm, nod a quick hello to Robb and Bran as he swoops a kiss to Sansa’s cheek. Easy, calm, relaxed — _happy_.

“There,” she says as Nym darts off with the other dogs. “Normal now.”

Follows them in, tea-towel flapping as she makes them all sit down at the dining room table. Christmas Eve dinner as decadent as — as it _normally_ is. Family recipes from the faded cook-book kept on the top shelf of the cupboard. Homemade bread. Flour-prints on her jeans, still. Not even hungry for the feast she’s spent the morning making; but it doesn’t matter. Because they’re all smiling across at her — and that means it’s all perfect.

Nibbles at a corner of bread, returns their smiles as best she can, little mantra — _perfect, perfect, perfect_ — sounding out in time with her heartbeat.

*

It _is_ perfect — till pudding.

Easy, calm, relaxed; everyone happy, laughing, joking, taking seconds, demolishing every little bit on their plates. Sansa on her third glass of red wine. Jon’s eyes skimming to hers every now and then across the table. Softness in the smile they share.

Gendry leaning back in his chair, groaning about how _bloody good_ the food is, how he wishes Arya was as good a cook as her sister. Cuff to the back of his head for that; but Arya only winks at Sansa, shares a conspiratorial smirk. Sun. Moon. Both shining just as bright in different kinds of light.

Whoops and scattered applause as Sansa dishes up dessert. Dips a mock-curtsey, makes sounds that it’s _thanks to the recipe, guys_ — but secretly she’s bursting with pride and warmth that the dinner’s gone so well. That everyone is eating. That everyone is _happy_. Sits down as spoons clatter and scrape; wash of happy wine-daze settling on her skin as she watches them eat and laugh all around her.

Easy, calm, relaxed — then Rickon makes a sharp sound as he bites down on a spoonful of roulade. She looks at him, happy wine-daze burning off almost instantly.

“Rickon?” she says. “You okay?”

He’s nodding. Wincing. “Mm. Just my _tooth_.”

“What’s the matter with your tooth?”

Puts his spoon down. “Hurts.”

“How long has it hurt for?” Bird-tilt of her head as he cradles a hand to his jaw, shifts in his seat. “Hmm?”

Blinks across at her: all baby-blues and soft lashes. “While.”

“All those sweets,” she sighs. “I’ve seen the wrappers in your room.” Looks away as he opens his mouth to protest. “Dad, when did he last see the dentist?”

Dad looks far away, frowns as he hears his name. “I — I’m not sure, love.”

“Month or two?” Touch of impatience flaring in her blood as she watches him grope for words, frowning as he loses them. “Dad, how long ago — ”

Robb nudges her shin under the table. “Leave it, Sansa.”

“It’s a simple question,” she says impatiently. “Rickon _needs_ to go to the dentist. I’m just trying — ”

“Sansa.” Robb cuts across her; hint of sharpness in his voice at odds with the soft look he turns on her. “You’re not — you’re not _Mum_ , okay? You don’t need to worry. Not right now. So… so just leave it, Sans. Please.”

“I’m not trying to be Mum.” Bullet to her chest, the weight of _that_ particular word as she spits it out breathlessly. “I’m just trying to keep our baby brother’s teeth from rotting out his head, Robb.”

“Sansa — ”

“Your glass is empty, Dad.” Somehow manages to grit the sentence out, swoops up from her seat. “I’ll get some more wine.”

*

Finds her way into the kitchen. Stumbles across the perfectly flat slate floor, bumps into the corner of the counter-island. Wants him to follow her. Wants to turn on her heel, set her eyes on the doorway and find him standing in it. Wants him to cross the flagstones in measured, easy strides. Wants him to crush her to his chest, whisper words warm as woodsmoke — _shh, Sans, shh_ — into her hair. Wants it all so _badly_.

Ache in her chest as she runs the tap, holds a glass beneath it. Watches as it fills and overflows and fills again. Saltwater stinging her eyes; blinks and feels the tears fall.

Tries to fight through them. Bustles away from the sink, piles up plates beside it. Wipes away the last of the flour from the countertop. Hums tunelessly as she tidies; sound dies in her throat as her eyes fall on the book open beside the bread-bin. Family recipes, faded pages — Mum’s neat little notes in the margins. _Don’t forget egg-wash, brush in top drawer_. Doubled over now, great tearing ache renting up her side like mountain-peaks pressing jagged against the sky.

Gripping onto the countertop when the kitchen door slides open, clicks shut. Shoulders drawn up toward her chin, tendons straining against the skin of her wrists. Tap still running — but she knows he can hear the snuffle of tears over the sound of flowing water.

Wants to call out to him. Reach a hand backward till she finds his fingers. But she can’t move. Can’t speak. Saltwater stinging her eyes, her tongue, her throat. But he’s _there_ — he _knows_. Hears him step toward her at the same time as his whisper slips out.

“Sans?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Means so much that this little world is resonating with some of you as deeply as it’s resonating with me. Can’t quite explain it; maybe angsty ache is just my cup of tea. Hope whoever is reading this little fic, this little note — is well and happy as can be, whether you celebrate the next few days or not. Till next time, honeys. ❤️


	4. relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Time to **b r e a t h e** 🌙

His voice chasing echoes on the air.

Closes her eyes. Takes a deep, steadying breath — but her heart is a mile-a-minute, fingers cramping on the countertop. Waits for him. Every bit of her focussed on the soft tread of his feet to the flagstones. Feels the tension knot her spine ramrod-straight. Ribs creaking with the speed of her breaths as he slots in behind her. Reaches a hand through the gap between her arm and her body; steady fingers shutting off the tap. 

“He didn’t mean it.” Brush of breath at her shoulder. “Sweetheart, he didn’t mean it.”

“I can’t go back out there,” she says softly. “I can’t do it, Jon.”

Folds back into him as his fingers trail from the tap to twine between her own. Rasp of his thumb across the back of her hand; warmth of him already melting the tension from her body. Thud of his heartbeat against the bone-notches of her spine: slow, steady — soft as the mist of his breathing on her skin. His grip tightens on her hand as her fingers start to shake.

“Hey, hey,” whispers it into the pulse-point beneath her ear. “No, no — _no_.” Pain in his voice to match the keen cracking her throat. “Shh, Sans, shh.”

“I can’t do it, Jon,” says it even softer now. “I can’t — I can’t _pretend_ anymore.”

“Sans, it’s okay — ”

“It’s _not_ okay, Jon.” Rounds on him now; turns in his arms, stares at him raggedly. “ _I’m_ not okay. It’s like my heart’s made out of glass. All shattered up. Splintered. My chest hurts every time I fucking breathe.” Leans into him even as she tries to fight it, fingers flying to grip at his collar. “I can’t do it anymore, Jon. Can’t pretend. Can’t fake-smile my way through it all.” Gazes up at him; voice thickening in her throat. “I can’t — I can’t fucking _breathe_.”

All the air gone from her: lungs caving in then bursting black-blue behind her eyes. Iron fingers on her throat, thumb at the hollow pressing in till her knees tremble and she’s gasping, gulping. No panic: just a soapy settled-in awareness that she’s drowning, that she’s flailing, that she can’t breathe — might never breathe again. Almost surrenders to it — but he’s there: he is _there_.

“You can.” Ripple in the tide: his voice pulling her up, up — _up_. “Breathe with me.” Somehow she’s looking at his lips, copying their shapes with her own. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. Slower. Good.” Fingertips at her brow, brushing back scarlet strands as he holds her gaze steadily. “I’m right here with you.”

*

Right here. Right _here_ is where she wants — _needs_ — to stay. Waves retreating. Ocean opening up inside her then dragging itself back across the sand till her head clears and air flows down her throat. Drinks it up like water, wine, honey, nectar. Feels drunk on it. Eyes on his still: smoky as the sky at dusk. His lips shaping soothing sounds. Wants them. Wants _him_ so badly it hurts.

Doesn’t think — _can’t_ think — just reaches for him. Knows it’s wrong to use him like this. Knows it even as she finds his mouth with her own, knots her fingers into his hair, drags him close, close — _closer_. Takes half a breath, then he’s kissing her back. Soft sound low in his throat; fingers tangling back from her brow to bunch a fist of ruby hair against the nape of her neck.

“Sansa — ”

“Please. Jon, _please_.”

Can’t pinpoint exactly what she’s asking for. But he knows. He _always_ knows. Comfortingly — _achingly_ — familiar, the way they move now. Natural. Reflexive. Knowing. His mouth opening beneath the pressure of hers: teeth, tongue, _taste_ — happy wine-daze threatening to resettle from the bit of sweetness still clinging to his lips. Quick fingers moving of their own accord. Pressure in places he knows she likes: thumbprint beneath her chin, palm squeezing gently round her throat, nails nipping at the soft skin of her hip as she parts her legs for him.

“ _Please_.”

But his hand has stopped midway through undoing her belt. Fingers hooked in over the waistband of her jeans, nails pushing into the soft skin above the lacy hem of her underwear. Rolls her hips against him. Pupils blown-wide, teeth flashing as she pulls at his bottom lip — but he still doesn’t move his hand. Her fingers find his wrist; uses all her strength to try and wrench him down between her thighs.

“Not here.” Shakes his head minutely; flash of fire in his eyes even so as she gives a soft, little whine. “Not now.”

Kneads his wrist between her fingertips. “Later?”

“Later.”

Nods at him as he promises it. Tastes his smile as he presses a soft kiss to her lips. Lets him pull his hand away from her jeans; feels it settle on the small of her back instead. Fingers splaying, hint of pressure till she steps into him a little closer. Dips a kiss to her brow, breath misting against her skin: slow, steady — soft as her own.

*

Finds another bottle of wine. Something red, cheapish: far enough away from the expensive, exquisitely-labelled vintages they _normally_ drink during the holidays — far enough away that it feels _right_. Carries it out in one hand back through to the dining room; but she doesn’t pour it out. Doesn’t fill Dad’s glass. Sets it in the middle of the table, lets everyone look after themselves. Just a little bit.

That — that feels _right_ , too.

It’s like everyone feels the same relief, the same rightness. Room relaxes inexplicably. Arya cracks open the bottle, lifts it toward Sansa. Everyone soon doing the same: adults with ruby-filled glasses, Rickon with his Ribena. Hurts her heart, heals it — all at once. Tears trembling on her lower-lids as they toast her — _thank_ her — soundlessly with their smiles. Warmth on her shoulders: Robb’s fingers flexing against her sweater, rough brush of his beard to her cheek as he whispers that he’s _sorry, Sans_ calls himself _a fucking idiot_ as she finds his hand, grips it tight, chuckling through her tears. 

“There,” she says softly. “Normal now.”

“True,” he says, just as softly. “Wouldn’t be Christmas without me making a tit of myself… and _then_ apologising.”

Turns to look at him now. Hair like hers: shades of autumn, amber, fire. Lopsided smile that reaches his eyes this time. Gives one back to match: sheen of tears making the gaze they share glitter like sapphires. Laughing now. Crying, too — but that’s okay. It’s not perfect; but it’s _okay_.

*

They let Rickon stay up a little past his bedtime. Makes him giddy: to be allowed to sit with them all in the living room as the clock-hands skate past nine. Overexcited at first, flashing round and round the Christmas tree, hop-skipping over presents, laughing as the dogs whirl about his ankles. Grey. Black. White. Same kaleidoscope of fur blanketing him as he sits down on the sofa to rest his eyes _just for a tiny minute_ — chest soon rising and falling in the soft breath of sleep.

Robb carries him up to bed, says his own goodnights: something about needing to give Jeyne a quick call. Arya grumbles sleepily as Gendry tugs her out from the armchair they’re cuddled up in. Waves at them over one of his impossibly-muscled shoulders as he ducks out into the hallway, creaks his way up the stairs. Jon meets Sansa’s eyes — soft little _just breathe, sweetheart_ smile — then he nips out for a final smoke before bed. Bran says he’ll keep him company.

She sits beside the fire, watching placidly as the room empties out. All of them gone. But the dogs are here. Dad — _Dad_ is here, too.

“I’ve been thinking.”

Turns toward him. “What have you been thinking about, Dad?”

“You,” he says quietly. “How tough you’ve had it. Not just this year. All the years before it, too.” Eyes on the flames licking up in the fireplace; but she can see the shadows dancing in those smoke-grey depths. “That prick who broke your heart.”

Flashes of gold-and-green memories behind her eyes. “That was a long time ago.”

“I know.” Half-turns toward her now. “But I never told you how proud I was of you.”

Meets his gaze, brow quirked. “Proud of me for what?”

“For how hard you worked to piece yourself back together after he tried to shatter you,” he says, voice a little thicker now. “For the woman you’ve made yourself into.” Smiles at her: the most beautiful, fragile smile she’s ever seen. “I got it wrong all those years ago, Sansa. _You_ are the one who is brave and gentle and strong.” Waves a hand dismissively, frowning even as a tear or two dapples his cheek. “Not some knight in shining armour riding up to rescue you — you never _needed_ that. You are your own champion and — and I am _so_ very proud of you for that. For everything. For the way you carry yourself. For the way you’ve carried us _all_ since — since Mum died.”

Something breaks in her now. “Dad — ”

“No,” he says firmly. “It’s important for me to say all this, Sansa — here, _now_.” Their fingers are tight-woven together; flames at their feet, fire in their eyes. “You _are_ your mother, sweet one, every bit of you — but you are _yourself_ , too. Brave and gentle and strong. You make my life bright as the sun and — _and_ I love you, Sansa. I love you all so very much.” 

Brings his hands clasped in her own up to her brow. “I love you, too, Dad.” His fingers on her chin: rough and warm against her ivory skin. “We carry each other. That’s how a family works — how a pack survives.” Stares at him, sees the shadow of a smile beneath his close-cropped beard. “And I think — I think you _know_ that I’ve got someone to carry me, too.”

“Of course I know,” he says gently, husk in his voice etching deep in her heart. “Whatever you and Jon are, whatever you’re _not_ … either way, you have my blessing.” Touches her cheek; brushes his thumb to catch up her tears. “You don’t need it — but you have it. Now and forever, sweet one.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you, Dad.”

*

Feels light as the smoke drifting up from out in the garden. Watches it twist as she steps through the back door: blueish-grey clouds mixing with the ink-dark air. Bran is laughing at something Jon’s saying; comic-wide eyes freezing as he spots Sansa emerging into the garden, shoves the half-smoked cigarette back to Jon. She just smiles, pretends not to see.

He brushes past her on his way back in, dogs following as he gives a whistle. She catches his arm, pulls him into a fierce hug that nearly swipes him off-balance. Her brother startles for a moment, then wraps his arms round her. She burrows a kiss to his cheek. Breathes him in. Winter air. Woodsmoke. _Warmth_.

“Merry Christmas, Bran.”

Muffle of laughter. “It’s not Christmas yet, sis.”

“Love you.” Pulls back, gives him a look fierce as her grip. “Okay?”

Smiles at her knowingly. “Okay.”

Nod at each other. Holds him half a heartbeat longer, then lets him go. Watches him step up into the boot-room behind the kitchen. Needs a hair-cut. Jumper could do with a wash and a patch at the left elbow. But he’s whistling a merry little tune beneath his breath, dogs swirling at his ankles, smile thrown back at her over his shoulder — and he’s perfect as he is. Perfectly imperfect: just as they all are.

“Sans?”

Fingertips trailing down between her shoulder-blades. She closes her eyes, steps back into Jon as the warmth of his body presses against her bones. Turns her head just slightly, lips pursed, wordlessly asking. Softest little kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth. _Someone to carry me, too_. His arm round her waist; she skates her fingers along it, slots them between his own. Pulls their interlocked hands up to her lips, presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Is it later yet, Jon?”

Feels his smile against her throat. “I think so.”

“Bed?”

“ _Please_.”

Makes her smile, that.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home truths + echoes to past parties ( **#RumRage**...) Christmas Eve. Promise of things beginning to knit together, mend, _heal_ — all drifting down to a sweet, soft chapter to finish up this little fic... _soon_. Thanks for reading + a belated HNY to you. ❤️


	5. resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Soft, sexy chapter + a sneaky Jon POV right at the start. 🌻

Her bedroom.

Manicured lines, matte-white walls. A scarf stretched out on the wall behind the bed; pale, primrose yellow. Makes him think of the winter sun. Framed photographs on the bedside tables: dogs, family, a streak of fire as she tosses her head in laughter. Stands on the threshold, takes it all in. Tasteful — everything about her is. Steps inside, closes the door quietly behind him. Takes a breath.

Feels strange to be here.

Feels _right_.

Her fingers on the drapes — pale as the primrose scarf — pulling them together. Sliver of moonlight dappling the patch of wooden floor beneath the window; plays shadows across her face as she turns to look at him. Ghost of a smile on her lips to see his ink-dark eyes wide in wonder.

“Does it look _that_ different at night?”

“We never — ”

“I know, Jon.” 

Always the guest room: well-oiled door gliding open with the barest pressure. Him sat up against the pillows, sheets pooled round his hips. Her limned in a little flare of moonlight: pale as ivory against the darkened doorway. To be here: her space, her sanctuary lit up by starlight — feels strange, feels _right_.

Her fingertips dancing light-footed across his chest; that feels right, too.

*

Earlier, her fingers were frantic. Fumbling for a grip at his collar. Hair. Beard. Shirt. Anything to drag him close, close — _closer_. But it is slower now. She can _breathe_ now; soft little lungfuls that taste of the red wine they had at dinner. Tobacco, too: burnt-brown tang of it still peppered on his tongue.

His hand between her shoulder-blades. Sweeping down to her waist, back up to cradle the nape of her neck in his palm. Glancing kiss to the corner of her mouth as he pulls back a little, frowns against her brow. She meets his gaze: ink-dark with wonder — a reflection of the same sentiment sparking up her own sapphire depths. 

“I feel like this is the first time.”

“Me, too.”

Shakes his head minutely as he says it. Frown twisting against her brow; but there is a smile there, too. Just _there_ at the edges of his eyes, the tiny quirk at the corner of his lips. Trails her fingertips across his mouth now, thumb broadening the sweep of his smile as he gives into it. Ducks from her hand to hide it; but she feels the shape of it in the kiss he presses to her neck.

Tilts back her head, opens herself up to his touch. Lips at her neck, still. Dipping down to the hollow of her throat, his fingers pushing the shirt off her shoulder to bare the scarlet spray of freckles to the moonlight. Feels his mouth hover on them: tongue wicking out as he gets a taste of each and every one. Makes her moan quietly. Sound must spark something in his veins — beat of heat to match the pulse in her own — sound low in his throat as he pulls the sweater off over her head.

“ _Fuck_.”

Doesn’t say anything. Lets her skin do the talking: every little bit of it bared to glow pale as the moonlight at the window. Jeans, shirt, sweater scattered across the carpet. _Fuck_. That sound low in his throat again: rough and warm as his fingertips ghosting the bone-notches of her spine. Watches as his eyes rove over her body, tongue wicking his lower lip as he remembers the taste of each and every bit.

*

Backs her up toward the bed. Soft, piled quilts brushing the backs of her knees. Puts a hand to his chest, bites her lip as she looks into his eyes. He pauses: one strong arm looped round her waist, other trailing the milk-white valley between her hipbones. Holds her steady as they stare at each other.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

Looks at him: ink-dark curls cascading as he tilts his head in puzzlement. _For never asking questions_. _For being there_. _For carrying me_. Thousand thank-yous trembling on her tongue; but she doesn’t need to say them. Doesn’t need to spell it out: word by word, bit by bit. He knows — he _knows_. Shivers in his arms, sighs, smiles.

“For everything,” she says softly.

“You’re welcome, Sans,” he says, soft smile cool water to the fire in his eyes. “Now get on the bed.”

*

Hint of smoke to his voice; hint of strength in how he handles her now. Feels good — feels _right_. Folds back onto the bed, thighs wide as he moves into their cradle. She pulls his shirt off over his head. Fingers nipping at the plump muscles of his shoulders; dragging him up till he’s flush against her body. Resists her for half a heartbeat, palm between her thighs, head dipping down to follow it.

“I want — ”

“Later.”

Gentle growl in his throat as he nuzzles at the dip of her waist. Almost gives into him. But she wants — _needs_ — him inside her. Tongue at her navel now, fingers parting her where he wants to sink his mouth. Gentle growl ebbing to a groan as she knots a grip into his hair, pulls him up — _later, Jon, later_ — promise of it burning in her eyes as she flails to find the button of his jeans, skins them down over his hips.

Eyes on hers: ink-dark as the sky without. Warmth flushing the valleys beneath her skin as he pushes inside her. Feels herself ebb, unfold round him; flutter back as he begins to move. Pulse of a moan at her ear. Smoky, dark — breathless as she rocks her hips, takes him deeper. Nails nipping at his cheek, sliding down to tangle in his beard. Face against his neck.

“Sansa.”

Fingers in her hair, slipping strands round their stems. Little pull to make her roll her gaze up to him. Stare at each other, no longer wary. Not weary, either. Wonder there instead: soft-sheen of moonlight limning his ink-dark eyes. Hips sliding smoothly against her own even as a line knits between his brows. Draws them up: little puppy-dog look that makes her heart swell against his chest. Leans close. This time, she doesn’t turn away.

“Kiss me.”

Links her fingers at his nape, pulls him close, close — _closer_. Gives a little sigh to feel the heat of his mouth spread through her body: white-hot in her throat, lake of fire in her belly, threads of warmth twining tight between her hipbones. Brow furrowing, taste of a moan on his tongue as he pauses inside her. Cants her hips, lets him settle; holds him deep, unmoving as her fingers ebb-and-flow against his nape.

“There,” she says softly. “Normal now.”

He says nothing — only kisses her again, softest little glow limning his ink-dark eyes before he closes them in a smile.

*

She lets him sleep a while. Crooked up on an elbow watching him: long lashes a storm of black swept down on his cheeks. Heartbeat slow and solid against her palm. Taps a lullaby against his skin with her fingertips; swoops down to wake him with a kiss when she grows too impatient.

“Dad knows about us,” she whispers into his mouth. “Gave us his blessing.”

“For what?”

He says it casually, sleep thick in his throat; but she sees something else leap in his half-closed eyes. Brushes a kiss to his cheek, leans back slightly to meet his gaze. Fingers in her hair, lazily working a scarlet curl round his thumb.

“For whatever we are.” _Whatever you’re not_. “What are we, Jon?”

“Two people living on the same planet,” he says softly. “Mm, making it up as we go along.”

“Making what up?”

“Our own world, Sans.” Lets the scarlet curl spring free; slips his hand to cradle her jaw. “Our gentle little world. I love it — and you.”

Opens her mouth to speak — _I love you, too_ — but he steals the sound from her tongue. Runs his fingertips gently down her throat, settles his thumb at the hollow of it. Lifts her chin as he pulls back from their kiss; dares herself to keep from crying. Manages it, _just_. He sees the war in her eyes, though; sunlit smile as he sweeps his thumb along her collarbone.

Thousand love-yous trembling on her tongue; but she doesn’t need to say them. Not now. Not yet. Not till she can trust herself to speak without sobbing. Makes no matter. Doesn’t need to spell it out: word by word, beat by beat. He knows — he _knows_. Shivers into the kiss he presses to her mouth, sighs, shares his own sunlit smile.

“I know, Sans… I know.”

Whimpers as she rolls onto her back, pulls at his shoulders. He covers her slow and dark as sun-warmed honey; skin gliding against her, fingers working their way down to her hips. Pushes her up into the pillows. Tips back her head, bites her lip as the pale, wintry sun floods the bed in primrose light. Limns his curls, turns his eyes warm as embers as she rolls her gaze to meet with his own.

“Is it later yet, Sansa?”

Presses a kiss below her heart. Another where the bone-notches of her ribs splay apart. Her thighs spreading as he dips down her body. Lips skating the ridge of her hipbone.

“I think so.”

Feels his smile against the top of her thigh. “Ready?”

“ _Please_.”

Squeak in her throat; rumble against her hip. Looks down to meet his eyes, finds herself laughing. Smoky, dark — breathless as the chuckle rumbling through his chest. Runs her fingers down to cup his cheek. Her ribs shaking with the sound of it: _laughter_ — after all this time.

Feels good.

Feels right.

Feels like _home_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly haven’t enjoyed writing something _this_ much for so long. Don’t know why. Just soft and sad and bittersweet; but easy-flowing, too. I don’t know. Can’t quite explain it. Thanks to those of you that have indulged me writing up this (gentle) little world. Dearly hope you enjoyed reading this final chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. That’s me done for a little bit — theoretically… but let’s see how long I last without posting anything. Got **lots** in the works…! For now, thank you so much for reading, my honeys. ❤️


End file.
